The Squire moved forward a little and held forth his hand, which the farmer took and shook doubtfully. We others were as silent now as the grave, feeling this visit to be even stranger than all that had gone before.
“I drove up right after breakfast, Mr. Beech,” said the Squire, making his accustomed slow delivery a trifle more pompous and circumspect than usual, “to express to you the feeling of such neighbors as I have, in this limited space of time, being able to foregather with. I believe, sir, that I may speak for them all when I say that we regret, deplore, and contemplate with indignation the outrage and injury to which certain thoughtless elements of the community last night, sir, subjected you and your household.”
“It’s right neighborly of you, Square, to come an’ say so,” remarked Abner. “Won’t you set down? You see, my son Jeff’s jest come home from the war, an’ the house bein’ burnt, an’ so on, we’re rather upset for the minute.”
The Squire put on his spectacles and smiled with surprise at seeing Jeff. He shook hands with him warmly, and spoke with what we felt to be the right feeling about that missing arm; but he could not sit down, he said. The cutter was waiting for him, and he must hurry back.
“I am glad, however,” he added, “to have been the first, Mr. Beech, to welcome your brave son back, and to express to you the hope, sir, that with this additional link of sympathy between us, sir, bygones may be allowed to become bygones.”
“I don’t bear no ill will,” said Abner, guardedly. “I s’pose in the long run folks act pooty close to about what they think is right. I’m willin’ to give ’em that credit—the same as I take to myself. They ain’t been much disposition to give me that credit, but then, as our school-ma’am here was a-sayin’ last night, people ’ve been a good deal worked up about the war—havin’ them that’s close to ’em right down in the thick of it—an’ I dessay it was natural enough they should git hot in the collar about it. As I said afore, I don’t bear no ill will—though prob’ly I’m entitled to.”
The Squire shook hands with Abner again. “Your sentiments, Mr. Beech,” he said, in his stateliest manner, “do credit alike to your heart and your head. There is a feeling, sir, that this would be an auspicious occasion for you to resume sending your milk to the cheese-factory.”
Abner pondered the suggestion for a moment. “It would be handier,” he said, slowly; “but, you know, I ain’t goin’ to eat no humble pie. That Rod Bidwell was downright insultin’ to my man, an’ me too—”
“It was all, I assure you, sir, an unfortunate misunderstanding,” pursued the Squire, “and is now buried deep in oblivion. And it is further suggested, that, when you have reached that stage of preparation for your new house, if you will communicate with me, the neighbors will be glad to come up and extend their assistance to you in what is commonly known as a raising-bee. They will desire, I believe, to bring with them their own provisions. And, moreover, Mr. Beech”—here the Squire dropped his oratorical voice and stepped close to the farmer—“if this thing has cramped you any, that is to say, if you find yourself in need of—of—any accommodation—”
“No, nothin’ o’ that sort,” said Abner. He stopped at that, and kept silence for a little, with his head down and his gaze meditatively fixed on the barn floor. At last he raised his face and spoke again, his deep voice shaking a little in spite of itself.